


No Room At The Inn (Temporary Title)

by rebelliousrose



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (2015)
Genre: Christmas, Christmas Fluff, Developing Friendships, England (Country), English Christmas, Fashion & Couture, Featherbeds, First Christmas, Gen, Mistletoe, Platonic Cuddling, Research is my kink, Snow, Snowed In, Stewardesses - Freeform, Vintage Airlines
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-12-19
Updated: 2017-12-19
Packaged: 2019-02-16 22:41:56
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,121
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13063680
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rebelliousrose/pseuds/rebelliousrose
Summary: London Airport is a predictable mess. The UNCLE team has been travelling for thirty-seven hours after their abrupt mission scrub, precipitated by an urgent telegram from Waverly, pulling them out of violence-torn Cyprus with no warning and only the clothes on their backs and Illya’s case. The airport itself is relatively warm, but Gaby is still shivering from the sprint down the air stairs and across the icy tarmac to the Europa Terminal in her light cotton khaki shirt and pants. Illya, of course, is ignoring any personal discomfort and pacing restlessly, watching Gaby with an anxious eye to her health. Solo has commandeered a house phone and is trying to reach Waverly, complicated by the fact that it has begun to snow and lines are down between the terminal and the main phone exchange.





	No Room At The Inn (Temporary Title)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Azulet](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Azulet/gifts).



> Azulet, you are getting a second chapter! Life happened and I ran out of time!

London, December 24, 1963

London Airport is a predictable mess. The UNCLE team has been travelling for thirty-seven hours after their abrupt mission scrub, precipitated by an urgent telegram from Waverly, pulling them out of violence-torn Cyprus with no warning and only the clothes on their backs and Illya’s case. The airport itself is relatively warm, but Gaby is still shivering from the sprint down the air stairs and across the icy tarmac to the Europa Terminal in her light cotton khaki shirt and Capris. Illya, of course, is ignoring any personal discomfort and pacing restlessly, watching Gaby with an anxious eye to her health. Solo has commandeered a house phone and is trying to reach Waverly, complicated by the fact that it has begun to snow and lines are down between the terminal and the main phone exchange. 

Solo returns to the dishevelled pair, and looks severely at Gaby. She’s bunched into one of the chilly metal chairs, arms wrapped around her knees into a tight little ball. “Really, Peril, you might at least give her your safari jacket,” Solo drawls, unbuckling the belt of his own and tucking it around her as much as possible. “It’s not as if you feel the cold like humans do.” 

Illya’s icy blue glare leaves Solo profoundly unmoved, and he begins to rub Gaby’s shuddering back briskly under his jacket. 

“D-d-d…d-d-did you g-g-get through?” Gaby asks through quivering lips. 

“Sadly, no,” Solo replies. “It appears we are on our own tonight.”

“I have the travellers’ cheques,” Illya offers, “We could find a hotel nearby?” 

Solo sighs, looking around the crowded terminal. It’s truly mobbed, with more people seeking chairs every second, and glamorous stewardesses and pilots are dashing elegantly along with the crisp uniforms and bags of their various airlines. Spotting a surprisingly familiar face, Solo makes a snap decision. “Charmion! Mrs. Wilson!” he calls, and a fair-haired stewardess in the distinctive blue Federal Airlines uniform stops short and searches the crowd. 

She’s a lovely woman, tall and slim with a sweetly sad expression, and Gaby rolls her eyes and thumps her forehead to her knees with an unsurprised air. Of course Solo knows a stewardess, in a hectic international airport, and of course she’s beautiful. 

Mrs. Wilson puts a hand out to her companion, a strong-jawed redhead, and they pause as Solo strides over to them, giving the redhead a half-bow and kissing both of Mrs. Wilson’s extended hands. A lively conversation ensues, which Gaby is too miserable to watch. Illya’s huge hands take over rubbing her shoulders, his touch gentler than Solo’s, but somehow infinitely more warming. 

“There are boutiques here in the airport. We can get you a coat.” 

“You and Solo need things too. We all do.”

Solo returns, smiling smugly. “Charmion and Dot have offered to get us onto a crew bus going to Bath Road, if you are up to it, Gaby.” 

Gaby nods sturdily and stands with a bit of help from Illya. The two stewardesses flank Solo and Illya offers Gaby his arm, tucking Solo’s safari coat closer around her. They are both grubby, and Gaby wrinkles her nose. The two splendidly groomed flight attendants are giving Solo all their attention, and Gaby is more than content to trail along behind with Illya.

The small group makes its way slowly through the terminal, and Gaby looks about her with some interest. They have never been to London Airport before, and it’s quite smart, with coffee kiosks, luncheonettes, and shops. She realizes she’s hungry, as well as being dirty and cold, and hasn’t brushed her teeth in close to three days. 

Illya notices her frown. “What is it?”

“We should get some things here; it’s Christmas Eve and shops may not be open when we find a hotel.” 

Illya nods and calls to Solo. He indicates a chemist’s, and while Solo carries on charming the stewardesses, ducks Gaby inside for toiletries. When she restricts herself to soap and toothpaste, Illya adds a hairbrush, hairpins, hair pomade, shampoo and crème rinse, shaving cream, a razor for himself and Solo, and a lipstick and false eyelashes. 

“You still need a better coat,” he fusses. “And boots.” 

He’s completely right, and while normally Gaby would protest the coddling, she’s done in. Between a nauseating crossing of the Mediterranean in a small fishing boat, being banged about in the trains in Turkey, and then the painful wait for a cargo transport from Istanbul to London, she’s had enough. Even Illya is showing wear around the edges, and she well knows how much it takes to slow the impervious Russian. 

Solo is not his usual impeccable self, but he’s still better off than the rest of the team. Where Illya’s khaki trousers and shirt are sweat and dirt-stained, Solo’s off-white linen shirt still shows marks of contact with an iron, and instead of Illya’s thuggish stubble, Solo’s incipient beard has the rakish charm of a young Douglas Fairbanks. Sometimes Gaby just wants to slap him for his studied perfection. Right now she just wants to lie down on an unmoving surface and sleep for three days. 

When they return to the main terminal, Mrs. Wilson puts her own arm around Gaby. “You poor thing. Captain Solo has told us all about what happened to you. You must be exhausted.” 

Gaby peers at Solo from under her messy bangs. What has he told them? She wonders if a swift and vindicating kick to his shin would be in whatever character he’s cast her in, but settles for replying demurely, “Yes, it’s been quite awful.” 

Mrs. Wilson gestures down the long concourse. “There are two boutiques along here that might have something that would fit you, and be warmer than what you have on. Losing all your luggage in a ship’s fire… you must be very brave.” 

“Without Captain Solo, I don’t know what we would have done,” Gaby replies, making a point to tread firmly on Solo’s instep as Mrs. Wilson gently guides her the length of the terminal. 

The first shop is out of the question, as it contains primarily resort wear, but the second is far more useful and Gaby stands quietly as Solo and Illya squabble over her possible clothing purchases. Mrs. Wilson looks bemused as Illya advocates a heavyweight mustard-colored bouclé and Solo urges a capelet-sleeved yellow Balenciaga with a double row of buttons up the front. She ignores both of them and selects a robin’s egg blue wool Nina Ricci swing coat with a bow closure, as they move on to arguing about what else she needs. She draws the coat over her shoulders and meets Mrs. Wilson’s kind eyes with a shrug. 

Illya stays stubbornly with the bouclé theme, producing an apricot sheath dress with a cozy full-length wrap jacket in camel, lined with the same apricot and with a wonderfully warm attached scarf. Solo adds a pair of cream slippers and soft knee-height apres-ski boots in caramel suede, and then tosses a pair of cream knitted ski pants and a cashmere fisherman-style knitted jumper on top. The counter girl looks overjoyed, and proffers tights and gloves, which Solo looks over critically and accepts. 

While the young woman wraps the clothes, Illya bundles Gaby into the new blue coat and adds a cream cloche hat, an orange spotted silk scarf and matching leather gloves to her ensemble. It’s quite a bit of money, but as usual UNCLE bears the cost. Gaby sometimes wonders what Waverly does to approve the expenditures between her clothing and Solo’s replacement suits. Being a spy is hard on the wardrobe. She can’t even count how much tailoring and couture have been ruined and abandoned in various countries. 

Gaby is left briefly at a tea counter while Solo and Illya duck into a men’s haberdashery. She’s lost track of the two stewardesses and doesn’t much care as she gulps down a thick ceramic mug of steaming tea, heavily laced with sugar and cream. She’d prefer brandy, but the stall’s simple offerings don’t quite run to that. Later, perhaps, when they find a hotel. 

Illya abandons the boxes and bags to Solo’s arms, and when Gaby realizes there are so many he’s barely able to see over them, she hooks her hand through his arm to steer him through the crowded concourse. He peers around the boxes with an impish grin. He clearly loves this, even travel-worn and weary. Inconvenience and the need to improvise invigorate Solo. 

“Is there anything else we need?” Gaby asks Solo, and is unsurprised when he indicates duty-free. She scurries around collecting the hamper of goodies he dictates, and adds a bottle of her preferred gin and a single-malt for the men. When she rejoins Solo, Illya takes the heavy hamper from her with an affronted air, but ignores Solo’s burden. Gaby removes the top two boxes from Solo’s pile and tucks them under her arm so he can at least see to walk. He’s guiding them, after all, since neither she nor Illya knows the stewardesses. 

When they step outside the terminal, Gaby sucks in her breath at the cold. Even through her new coat, the dry chill leaches warmth from her extremities immediately. She huddles closer to Illya, who moves a step in front of her to protect her from the wind. Solo raises his face to the swirling snow and inhales deeply, a genuine smile in place, as opposed to the usual studied polish. She’s never thought he might enjoy the scent of snow too. He can be so seemingly transparent, but she is never entirely sure what’s true. This moment is real, and she squirrels it away for later comparison. 

A feminine arm waves vigorously from a Federal bus idling at the curb belching diesel fumes, and the team climbs aboard. Solo settles next to the redheaded Dot, leaving Mrs. Wilson to sit across the aisle and Illya and Gaby to tuck in behind as the bus lurches into the airport traffic. 

“We’re breaking most of the rules Federal has,” Mrs. Wilson informs him, “But for you, Captain Solo, I think an exception can be made.” 

He looks at her with a seriousness that’s rare in him. “Thank you, Charmion.” 

For a moment Mrs. Wilson’s eyes sheen with tears, and she places her hand on his. “Hank would have wanted to help,” she says simply, then faces forward and composes herself. “I don’t know if there will be room for you at our hotel. Federal has reserved most of the rooms for stranded crews, and there are a lot of us due to the weather.” 

“We will manage,” Illya says gruffly. Shows of emotion from strangers unnerve him. “Thank you for your aid.”

“Thank you,” Gaby adds. She’s getting sleepy from the warmth and the motion of the bus, and leans her head against the cold glass window, closing her eyes. 

She rouses when the bus crunches to a halt. Illya comes alert as well, and as the other passengers stand, helps her out of the seat then offers his hand to Mrs. Wilson as Solo gathers the boxes and bags with Dot’s help. This time Illya is handed his fair share, and they bundle into the hotel lobby. There is a long line of airline personnel in various uniforms from PanAm to Braniff checking in, and Solo joins the line, having unceremoniously dumped the shopping at Gaby’s feet and deftly removed Illya’s travel wallet from his jacket pocket. 

Gaby collapses onto a marble planter, since all the chairs are full, and leans back against the plastic plants. The hotel is coldly modern, all sharp angles and it reminds her far too readily of the sterile feel of the Communist buildings built after the Wall. Illya takes the wall next to her, resting his hand lightly on her shoulder. Giving in to an impulse, Gaby rubs her cheek against his hand for a moment, and he responds by absently caressing her jaw with his thumb. She’s afraid to move, afraid he will stop what he’s doing and recoil, so she sits absolutely immobile, eyes closed. His touch is precious, and she’s unwilling to waste it. 

“Bad news,” Solo’s voice breaks the silence between them, but instead of yanking his hand away, Illya returns it to her shoulder with a comforting grip. “It appears that there is no room at the inn. If you are up to it, the desk clerk rang a nearby pub that lets rooms and has one left. I hope you don’t mind ghosts, because it’s supposedly haunted.” 

Something inside Gaby bursts into childish tears, but she levers herself up off the icy marble and reaches for the hamper. Illya takes it out of her hands and gives her the light shopping bags instead, tying the bow of her coat and wrapping his new muffler around her neck over her light silk scarf. 

Solo collects boxes and leads the way across the lobby, in a low-voiced conversation with Illya. The Russian rumbles back, censure in his tone. Solo shrugs. 

Outside is beyond bitter, and Illya breaks trail for all of them, Solo freeing an arm to wrap around Gaby’s shoulders and pull her close against his side. She’s grateful for the warmth. 

The two blocks to the pub are brutal. Gaby slips multiple times, and once Solo drops the boxes. Illya skids and nearly launches the hamper into orbit as he recovers himself. 

When The Ostrich looms into view through the midday gloom and snow, it’s a haven of light. An old coaching inn with a long history, it’s a two-up two-down rectangle of white stucco and Tudor beams, garlanded with greenery and crusted with snow. It’s the most beautiful thing Gaby’s seen in months. Fake candles shine out the windows, and as the weary team stumbles into the cobbled archway to the interior, the cessation of the wind is bliss. 

The lobby is blessedly uncrowded, unlike the more cosmopolitan hotel used by the airlines, and a fire roars in the old fashioned fireplace. Gaby makes a beeline for it and ungracefully falls into a battered armchair, raising her frozen feet to the flames and completely ignoring Solo’s conversation with the desk clerk until she realizes that his accent is suddenly plummy, upper-crust British, a dead ringer for Waverly’s, and Illya stands behind her chair, a silent monolith. 

“Really, chap, you can’t expect us to drag the Baroness Kobyliński out into this beastly weather again. She’s a lady. Haven’t you something, even a servant’s rack? A spot under the stairs?” 

Recognizing her cue, Gaby droops pathetically, which isn’t hard, and for once Illya unbends his principles enough to help, going to one knee in front of her and chafing her hands, muttering to her in… Polish? She doesn’t speak Polish, and he doesn’t really either, but she supposes German is probably not a good idea if they are trying to get a room in an English inn. Tensions left over from the war run deep, and Russian is a worse idea. No one seems to be mad at Poland for being conquered. 

She moans weakly, catching his eye. Unexpectedly, he’s wearing what passes for a smile. If he’s finding this funny, she’s never going to understand him as long as she lives. 

“Are we engaged?” he asks in very quiet German. “If we are going to share a room with Solo, we must find a way to stay together without outraging the desk clerk’s sensibilities.” 

Gaby is about to reply when Illya’s hands tighten on hers almost painfully. Solo’s argument with the desk clerk has escalated and involves the words “my fiancée” and “her cousin, the Count Korwin Piotrowski”. Illya looks like he wants to use the fireplace iron on Solo, who is now thanking the desk clerk and signing the register with who-knows-what name. 

They follow the clerk up three narrow flights of stairs, down an increasingly dingy and narrow corridor, Solo chatting genially at the man, until they run out of doors with numbers and continue on into a shabbier part of the inn, under the eaves. Illya casts a suspicious eye at the lowering ceiling, which is dangerously close to his head to begin with and seems to be getting lower. With a flourish, the clerk pushes open the door to a tiny chamber with plastered walls and plank floors. The ceiling slopes down on the side farthest from the door, and wedged in are two chipped iron bedsteads, the footboards meeting the ceiling as it comes down. A small nightstand is jammed between the beds, and a tinier bureau by the door, and inexplicably, a sink. The other side is occupied by the rough brick of the chimney. Illya looks resigned. If they stay here, he will have to sit cross-legged in the middle of the room to avoid banging his head, as will Solo. Gaby is in no danger, and trips daintily into the room, puts up her nose and sniffs disdainfully at the beds. The mattresses are thin, they will need more blankets and towels, but it’s a roof, and she’s weary, and not in any mood to be picky. 

Solo offers the clerk several pound coins. “Is there any way you can make the room a bit more comfortable for the Baroness? We will need towels as well; most of our things were lost when the ship sank." Eyes bright with greed, the clerk nods and disappears. Gaby sticks her head back out into the hall, locates the bathroom door, and unceremoniously abandons the men to attend to her personal needs. As she washes her hands, she hears banging in the hallway, and decides to hide in the bathroom, sitting on the radiator and enjoying the heat seeping through her pants. The dress that Illya selected is lovely, but right now the thought of the creamy cashmere sweater and ski pants seems like heaven. When the noise abates, she returns and what she sees leaves her completely speechless. 

Bent at the waists, Illya and Solo are wrestling the biggest pillows she’s ever seen into submission. The room is filled with huge sacks of feathers, and she can’t fit inside, only stand in the hall giggling helplessly. “What is this?” she asks in German, too tired to try and assemble Polish. There’s no one nearby; the desk clerk has deserted them for the lower regions, undoubtedly quite a few pounds richer. Solo is laughing, and Illya looks substantially annoyed as he grapples with the feather zeppelin. 

“This is comfort, Gaby, if we can ever get it arranged. Have you never seen a featherbed before?” Solo asks, delivering a punch to the nearest part of the giant bolster. 

Illya growls something in Russian, and Solo gives up and sits down on the floor in the pile of feathers and cotton. “Let’s rethink this, shall we? Since maid service is a doubtful option, I suggest we push the beds together, load them up with the featherbeds, and sleep crosswise, so Illya and I can fit. Or Gaby can have her own featherbed, and Peril and I can fight over the floor.” 

“You will lose fight, Cowboy,” Illya states flatly, bristling. 

Solo raises an eyebrow. “Are you offering to test my expertise at grappling in a bed?”

“Enough!” Gaby barks. “Take the feathers out into the hall, take the luggage out into the hall. One of you help me to move the beds so they won’t make noise and attract attention.” 

The men scramble to follow her orders. Neither one wants to try her temper. They may abuse each other as part of their odd friendship, but Gaby is rarely roused to anger, and they recognize she’s had enough. 

Once there is room to move, she and Solo lift the beds together easily, and Solo cleverly uses the belts from the safari jackets to buckle the bedsteads together so they won’t shift and sag in the middle. The nightstand is unceremoniously relocated next to the sink, and the resisting featherbeds are man and womanhandled back into the room, shaken vigorously, and arranged side by side. Solo spreads sheets over them as Illya shakes out the pillows. They are oddly capable at women’s tasks, and never expect Gaby to be solely the one to attend to them. 

The feather ticks are huge, and Gaby finally gives in, falling face down into the middle of them and squealing with delight as they envelop her in a cloud of rapidly warming comfort. She’s never felt anything like this, even as a child, and makes a mental note to acquire one for her flat even if she has to raise the ducks and geese herself. Solo flips the duvet over her, and smiles genuinely at her bright face cradled in down. 

“I’ll see what I can manage in the way of tea, and find out about dinner,” Solo offers, ducking to miss the jamb on the way out the door. 

Illya washes his hands, stealing glances at Gaby, snuggled in her cozy nest. She smiles at him sleepily, eyelids fluttering. He removes his shirt and uses a washcloth on his face and neck, turning his back politely as he rubs the cloth over his chest under his shirt and underarms, and she murmurs, “I won’t look if you want to wash up.” 

Of course she will, if she can keep her eyes open. Illya is beautiful in less clothing, as is Solo. They are gloriously male, the both of them, and while Solo knows it, a sleek tiger proud of his stripes, Illya is a shy steppes wolf, lean and fluid. 

Illya turns his back and removes his undershirt and Gaby allows the sweep of her false eyelashes to veil her gaze. Neither man has yet realized how much a woman can see from under the veil of cosmetic enhancement, even Solo, who should be familiar with feminine minutiae. Illya glances back over his shoulder, and reassured by her closed eyes, uses the washcloth to scrub vigorously at his sleek torso, soaping and rinsing with disregard to the water drops scattering all over the floor. A trickle runs down the back of his neck and the dip of his spine, and Gaby is flushed with sudden heat as she thinks about chasing the water with her tongue. A zipper rasps, and she is treated to the sight of the curve of his lower back and the upper reaches of his taut flanks as he washes as much as he can reach. She wonders idly why he isn’t using the bathroom down the hall, but of course he won’t leave her unattended and sleeping in a strange place. 

Solo’s return wakes her, as does the smell of the tea tray he carries. She’s starving, and even though she’s still tired, she flails free of the bed and does her share to the lovely pastries and hearty sandwiches. Dinner is several hours away, and the quality of the impromptu tea bodes well for a merrier Christmas Eve than expected. Solo has gotten through to Waverly as well, and they are awaiting the weather to abate enough to allow a return to London for debriefing. From the look of the conditions outside, it won’t be tomorrow. 

Over biscuits, Solo informs them of his cover. “Viscount Eccles? Really?” Gaby asks. 

Solo shrugs one shoulder. “I was hungry.” 

After tea, Solo heads to the shared bathrooms, Illya sorts gear while seated on the floor, already tired of knocking his head, and Gaby returns to her feather paradise. It’s lovely being quiet with her teammates, with no danger or mission to worry about. It reminds her why she likes them most of the time. 

When she rouses again, she’s alone in the room, and the key is next to her on the pillow. It’s not as if Solo needs a key to get into a locked room, or Illya. She’s not as good as Illya yet, but can competently pick a simple lock with more time and less gadgets. 

She takes a blissful bath, luxuriating in the hot water, washing her hair, unconcerned with the amount of time she has commandeered the bathing room. Once someone rattles the knob, but she shouts “Occupied!” in a heavy faux-Polish accent and they leave her to her tub in peace. 

Not until she leaves the bathroom does she realize that she didn’t bring clothing to change into, and has to dash the length of the corridor clutching the inadequate towel around herself and protecting her modesty with a bundle of toiletries and dirty clothes. She crashes into the room as Illya swings around from the dresser, travel chessboard in his hand, automatic combat crouch not preventing the impact of his forehead with a low-hanging beam. 

At the thud, she flies to his side, carelessly dropping her bundle to the floor and cradling his face in her hands to inspect his forehead for damage. He’s going to have a lump, and Gaby dabs ineffectually at the spot with her towel. His eyes heat, and she realizes that she’s giving him a very good view down the front and she breaks off stammering and clutching the towel back around her. Illya retrieves his chessboard from the floor and leaves her to her blush. 

The taproom is crowded and smoky, brisk fires in the fireplaces at either end, the bar jammed with locals enjoying their pints, and the trestles with stranded travellers. Christmas carols are playing on a battered record player, and once in a while the needle sticks, prompting an abrupt change of song as whoever is nearest shifts the needle with a discordant screech.

Illya and Solo are playing chess in half of a snug, and as Gaby pauses in the doorway, the Russian’s eyes are drawn to her as if to a lodestone. He always seems to know when she is present, and his attention to her draws Solo’s as well. She’s chosen the ski pants and sweater, but used the boucle wrap jacket and scarf as well, the apricot, camel, and cream in a harmonious whole. She looks charming, and when a passing customer busses her heartily on her brown cheek, she reacts with perplexity, not violence. 

Solo is on his feet. “Hello, darling,” he calls. “We’re over here.” 

He receives a dig in his ribs from the other side of the snug. “Don’t waste it, mate.” 

Solo looks at the stranger quizzically. 

The man gestures. Above Gaby’s damp head is a large bunch of fresh mistletoe, tied with a battered red bow. Across the snug, Illya stiffens. “Don’t you milords hold with Christmas, then?” the man asks. “I’d kiss that bit in an instant.” 

Illya drums his fingers on the scarred tabletop, but Solo administers a sharp kick to his shin on the way out of the snug to fetch Gaby. “I’ll get her, calm down,” he orders. 

Before he can get across the taproom Gaby has been kissed again, this time on the mouth and she’s looking both angry and bewildered. As Solo reaches her, she looks up at him in confusion. 

“They take their mistletoe seriously here, darling,” he says, and leans down to kiss her himself, to riotous cheers. It’s a good kiss, staged theatrically for the benefit of the cheerful crowd, and Gaby kisses him back. He’s truly expert at this; perfect pressure, sweet breath, mouth firm but soft, and a teasing flick of his tongue across the seam of her lips. When he releases her, those watching applaud and then return to their own pursuits. Solo tucks her against his side and escorts her to the snug. 

Illya awaits, face etched with disapproval. “Public display is not the way to maintain cover,” he barks in German, and Gaby flinches, uncomfortable with his reprimand. 

“I think it served very well,” Solo replies, wiping off her lipstick with his handkerchief. “We’ve observed local custom, and no one is giving us a further look. Just because you are jealous, Peril…” 

“I am not jealous!” Illya snarls. “I am concerned with cover. Polish aristocracy are not so free with favors as American women.” 

“Stop!” Gaby’s raised voice arrests the brewing argument. “I am tired of being bickered over and around by two boys. Why must I always be mother?” 

“Apologies, my dear,” Solo says smoothly. “The Count is concerned with your reputation.” 

The putative Count offers a glare that would cut cheese, but subsides. Gaby seats herself next to Solo and holds out an imperious hand for the menu, studying it intently. 

Dinner is delicious, accompanied by a truly magnificent ale brewed just down the street, and in spite of the substantial tea earlier, Gaby cleans her plate of her roast, potatoes, Yorkshire pudding, peas, carrots, and gravy, then steals part of Illya’s Scotch egg, and most of Solo’s pickled beets. Dessert is slices of mince pie and a bowl of trifle. 

Solo sips a glass of port and Gaby has a gin and tonic, while Illya stares glumly at his chessboard and nurses a tea. Solo has co-opted a copy of The Evening News from yesterday and hands Gaby each section as he finishes. All is calm and bright, until Gaby realizes that Solo has folded the second section and secreted it under his thigh.  


“May I have the international?” she asks politely. 

“I’m saving it for later,” Solo replies vaguely, and Gaby dives over his lap and yanks it out, unfolding it to read. The front page is blazoned with the news that East Germany is allowing passes to West Berliners to visit relatives behind the Wall for eighteen days. The passes are 24 hours, and 730,000 people have applied for them. 

Gaby swallows hard. Illya abandons his chessboard and puts his hand over hers. “If you want to go, I will take you.” He laces their fingers across the snug. 

Solo takes the newspaper from her gently and puts his arm around her shoulders. “We’ll both take you.” 

Gaby looks at them, her team, her friends. Her peculiar family, since her blood family is dead, or imprisoned behind a wall. They are absolutely sincere in their offers, even though Solo is forbidden Communist Berlin after his rescue of her, and once Illya returns behind the Iron Curtain, it’s unlikely they will allow his return to the West. Solo will simply be shot like a dog and left in the street, as a warning to CIA American spies. 

A small smile touches her lips. “No. There is no need. I have everyone I want right here.” She leans her head against Solo’s strong shoulder and leaves her hand in Illya’s. “Happy Christmas, my friends.”

**Author's Note:**

> This thing is already out of control research-wise and a little AU (anyone who has read the Vicki Barr Flight Stewardess series may recognize Charmion and Dot) and it just keeps going. I totally changed my mind from the original idea (twice) and have managed to cram so much real history into the first two pages....
> 
> So, for the research inclined (you know who you are, yo), the realities behind this fluffy little sucker, with links (so many links) and pictures. Like I do. 
> 
> The team really was escaping from a bit of a kerfuffle in Cyprus, the ["Bloody Christmas"](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Bloody_Christmas_\(1963\)) in which Greek and Turkish Cypriots began a several days' conflict that killed more than 600 people, left over 25,000 homeless, and unsettled the small island for several days. 
> 
> Solo is borrowing the Lakonia tragedy in which a Greek ship caught fire off Madeira, and eventually sank, causing [128 people to die of drowning and exposure](http://www.seabreezes.co.im/index.php/features/events/141-the-lakonia-tragedy-a-hope-for-christmas) and eventually sinking while under tow on December 29, 1963. All events in the story (except one notable exception) take place Christmas Week of 1963, which was a busy week for history! I also moved the beginning of the [London Great Freeze](http://www.thamesweb.co.uk/windsor/windsorhistory/freeze63.html) forward a year. Poetic license. 
> 
> The Vicki Barr, Flight Stewardess series is a contemporary of the Cherry Ames, Nurse series, and many of the books were written by the same authors. I've just realized I forgot to have "Captain" Solo explain in this chapter how he knows Charmion! 
> 
> Heathrow Airport was originally called London Airport and had several quite fancy boutiques, as well as the more pedestrian coffee stalls. Here is Queen Elizabeth visiting with boutiques visible in the background in 1969, when it [was undergoing renovation.](http://i.dailymail.co.uk/i/pix/2017/05/30/10/40EEC77700000578-4554496-image-a-28_1496137893029.jpg) It looks [a lot more comfortable than current airports!](https://www.pinterest.com/pin/302796774940246644/)
> 
> As to the fashion; I was a costume designer for theatre for some years, and fashion and costume history is one of my things in a big way. Joanna Johnston used the incomparable 60's model [Jean Shrimpton](https://www.pinterest.com/pin/302796774940084881/) as the visual inspiration for Gaby, and since "the Shrimp" modelled for some of the best couturiers of the day, it's easy to find photos for inspiration.  
> The coat that Solo is advocating is actually a gorgeous but [impractical Balenciaga](https://www.pinterest.com/pin/302796774940062876/) and the coat Illya likes is actually one from my personal collection, albeit in green and shades of aqua. [Gaby's choice is an adorable Nina Ricci](https://www.pinterest.com/pin/302796774940062790/) that I think Joanna Johnston would love. The [boucle coat and dress combination ](https://www.pinterest.com/pin/302796774941447709/) is both warm looking and something that I could picture on Alicia Vikander. Sweden is COLD, and they complain about it a lot. 
> 
>  This picture shows a few hardcore featherbeds, and [so does this.](https://www.pinterest.com/pin/302796774940095153/)  
>   
> The [iron bedsteads](https://www.pinterest.com/pin/302796774940271508/) appear here. 
> 
> This image purely delights me, and is Solo and Gaby to the life. 
> 
> The [Ostrich](https://www.theostrichcolnbrook.co.uk/) is a real pub near Heathrow, and imagine how grateful our weary agents were to see this lovely place looming out of the snow! It's a neat looking pub hotel and has been in existence since the 1600's.


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